Rivers
by izziexxx
Summary: The river defined John's life; it defined his childhood, destroyed his adolescence and brought him rushing head on towards an adulthood that he couldn't control. The hospital was his last chance to keep a hold on his fragile grip. 'Til someone teaches him that if he tries to let go, he might be able to learn how to keep his head above water (Or Johnlock in a mental institute)
1. Vaitarna

In which we meet our unstable protagonist, who worries a lot.

o0o0o

"Lord God almighty, creator of heaven and earth, we ask you to bless this water as we use it in faith to forgive our sins. Lord, in your mercy give us living water, springing up as a fountain of salvation; free us, body and soul, from every danger, and admit us to your presence in purity of heart…"

John let the words wash over him. He didn't have to think about them; he knew the whole thing off by heart. He knew where to sit and where to stand. He knew when to listen and when to join in. He knew the differences between normal Sunday mass and special occasions. He knew how far he was into a sermon and what the priest would talk about in the evening mass depending on what had happened in the two morning masses. He knew how to bless himself as he came in and he knew the etiquette of holy communion. These things had been etched into his mind before he could even speak.

At six years old John didn't really understand or notice how often he and his family went to church, it seemed, to all intents and purposes, normal to him. The ritual of Sundays had always been the same. John and his family would rise at six, say their prayers, eat breakfast, wash and then get dressed into their first Sunday best. After that they would go to communion in the morning at eight, return home briefly to change once again, have a spot of tea, and would return to St Martins for the second Sunday morning communion at ten. They would spend the day alternating between eating, having tea at the dinner table and going through bible studies, and then they would return to the Church again for the evening service. They would often go to communion part way through the week as well if there was one being held, and his mother always knew exactly when the confessional was open.

He didn't asked his mother why they went to church so much, although when he asked had politely what communion was for, she, apparently pleased by his interest, insisted that it was to cleanse their souls of sin so that they would be worthy to remain in God's favour and on his earth. For a six year old extrapolating from such information was easy enough. If communion got rid of sin, and they went to communion all the time, then they must be full of sin.

He didn't really know how he had done so much sin, that the family would have to take communion this often, but he assumed that there must have been a lot of sin that needed accounting for. His mother would point it out to him often enough. "It's sinful," was a phrase often heard around the house. If only he could work out what the sin was, then he could stop doing it. If he could be a good boy and not sin then he wouldn't be so dirty. If he wasn't a bad child then his Mummy would stop being unhappy. Then they wouldn't have to go to church, then he could play with his toys and spend time with his sister, whom John, for now at least, thought was the best person ever. Mummy didn't tell her she was full of sin, Harriet was amazing.

Some part of John told him that it wasn't just him who was sinful, there were lots of other ladies he saw at the church all the time as well whom he was sure must do some bad things during the week. Why would they come so often otherwise? He tried to imagine how they would ever be bad people, and he couldn't work it out. He quite liked them all things considered; they smelled of powder and gave him sweets and pinched his cheeks and told him how much he looked like his father, although when one woman said that within hearing of his mother she turned a strange mottled puce and dragged him away to kneel outside confession. He wasn't sure what it was he had done wrong, though he must have done something and so he stayed there, very still and very quiet, until his mother came and got him again.

Mother was the one who was most interested in sin. She was especially interested in the cleansing of sin and ritual to purify the soul. Sometimes his mother would decide that the family weren't going to eat, to feel how Jesus felt as he was proving himself worthy of heaven in the desert. She would make them drink lots of water every Saturday, to ensure that their bodies were pure for church, and in the corner of the hallway was their own personal stoup for their holy water. She kept it in bottles, and they all knew that they had to bless themselves on their way out of and their way into the house.

It was just what they did, and John sort of understood after all, he was expected to wash to stop himself getting dirty, he figured a soul, whatever that was, probably needed the same treatment.

He was sure that other children must do this sort of thing as well, but they never spoke of it. His father insisted that to be boastful of their family's dedication to God was sinful in and of itself, though father never did seem as involved in the church as his Mother was. But still, pride was a deadly sin, the sort of sin that he would go to hell for, so he didn't speak of it at all.

He went to a catholic primary school, and they held mass as well every other Wednesdays for the older children. Even though he went to communion often, he was still expected to sit there and pray along and to receive his blessing from the priest who would visit them; his mother had requested it. Whilst the others his age were playing outside, or singing songs about Jesus in the classroom, John sat and watched the all too familiar mass unfurl, another one to add to his growing collection.

"Do hurry up, John" his mother said as the sermon ended and they left with the rest of the congregation crowding out of the door. "We have things to do."

Today was a day where he would go and play in the river, they all would, they would sit by the bank all in white and let the water wash them clean as mother read passages from the bible about Jesus's baptism and he would ignore most of it in favour of trying to see the little fishes that made the streams their home.

Living in the water, John thought, they could be free.

Nowadays John didn't go to the river. The last time he went bad things happened. That was why he was here he supposed; here in his room, packing a meagre suitcase of belongings and personal items. He wondered if there were things he wasn't allowed to bring. Probably stupid stuff, like shoelaces and belts and god knows what. Residents were probably dressed in some kind of uniform to make sure that no-one hurt themselves. The building was probably all whitewashed walls and metal furniture, the occasional official person wandering purposefully back and forth with a clipboard whilst the rest of them were isolated for fear of letting the crazies mingle.

He went through a checklist in his head of the thing that he needed to take; clean clothes, towels, toiletries, teddy, hard drive with all his work on it, favourite book (the one he would never let his mother see), his other favourite book (the mother approved one), grey's anatomy text book, biochemistry text book, a few photos of family, the rosary his mother had given him.

His memory box.

He paused at that. It was stupid really; a box of trinkets highlighting better times and better places. A trip he had enjoyed or an outing into the woods. A particular interesting stone and…

That fucking tape.

His hand hovered over it. After all these years, after all this time and all the bad blood that had come after, and he still couldn't throw away that fucking god forsaken tape. It wasn't like he hadn't tried. On that first day when _he_ stopped talking to John and starting taunting him he had tried to get rid of it. When he mother questioned him he had wanted to get rid of it to protect himself. But somehow, even after everything that came after, even after _that day_, even after the anguish that came with it, he still couldn't bring himself to get rid of it.

He was just too much of a coward he guessed; too pathetic, holding onto a thought and a feeling when the person that the feeling belonged to was long gone. The person those feelings were for was long gone.

_John_ was long gone.

Too much seemed to stop him from throwing that stupid tape into the bin, he instead carefully put it back in its place, sealed the lid and put the tin in his suitcase amongst his clothes. He carelessly packed a few other bits and bobs; it didn't really matter if he forgot something. It wasn't like it would be going anywhere, and his mother had all the really important documentation he needed.

There was a soft knock at the door, all the sounds around him had been soft nowadays, so as not to distress him he supposed. People treated him as though he might suddenly lash out if the noise level reached above a pre-set level of decibels. He knew it was his mother; his sister wasn't talking to him and his father wouldn't come near his room. He missed Harry sometimes, but then he remembered that Harry hadn't been much like the big sister he used to play with quite a while.

"I'm sorry, but the officer's here." He noticed how any terms of endearment she used to use were long gone now, not that he had heard them for a few years anyway. "Have you got everything you need?" She asked, "Have you got your spare…"

She still couldn't say it. He doubted that she'd ever be able to say it to his face, there was too much guilt there, or perhaps disgust. Either way it has amounted to this strange half recognised elephant in the room. Everyone trying to pretend it was normal when it was anything but.

"I've got my spare prosthetic mum, don't worry." John reassured her, consciously avoiding the use of the word 'leg' in turn.

It had been the first thing he had packed, and undoubtedly the hospital would want to take a look at it before he was checked in. The nagging worry that he might have to be on crutches or in a wheelchair for the first few days, whilst they verified that he hadn't tried to smuggle anything into the building via his leg, terrified him. There was nothing worse than losing independent movement; he remembered what it was like after the accident, before he had gotten his artificial leg. Though he had now lost his independence in some sense, he was acutely aware that there were things, options, which would have been much worse.

Of course the hospital never said that they _would_ take his leg to inspect it, but that paranoid part of his mind, the one that had heard far too many media horror stories about mental institutions and the way they treated in-patients, wouldn't let the thought leave his head.

"Maybe it's all for the best." His mother said, and not for the first time, "Maybe they can fix… everything." She said with a vague gesture of her hands, saying more in her omissions than her words ever could.

John froze in place stupid knitted red socks still in hand. He knew to what 'everything' his mother was referring, and it made him sick to his stomach. Just the meanest suggestion of it spiralled him into the path of a desperate churning guilt, mixed with the desire to scream a big _'fuck you'_ to the indoctrinated denunciation of self that had been thrust upon him from before he could remember. 'It's not my fault that you fucked up!' he had been screaming internally for years, but this time it was _him_ who had fucked up, and no matter how many things had caused him to arrive at this terrible place, it was still John's fault.

That was why he was being taken to the hospital by the long arm of the law, and not by health care professionals. How had his life come to this? His _father_ wouldn't even acknowledge his presence, his mother was driving herself mad trying to pretend that nothing was wrong, and his sister was go knows where taking advantage of his parents distracted nature to freely pursue her own 'sins'. Though being fair to her, he was mostly certain she was just being a normal student.

But in this family, normal was not normal.

He zipped his suitcase shut, and hauled it downstairs. This would be his life now, this meagre package of possessions. His sister watched him from her room with a look of barely disguised distain. They hadn't gotten on in years. No more would they play together and, whatever his mother would like to believe, it had started long before his accident.

"Say hello to the crazies from me." She uttered, the lack of sympathy and cruel humour radiating through every word.

John didn't reply. Though a thousand rebuttals filled his head, he didn't have the energy to express them anymore. He never had been able to confront people and the trial and subsequent court order had taken what was left of his spirit out of him.

She retreated to her room, letting the door slam behind her, as though to finalise her goodbye and her association with him. He tried not to care though, in some way she had disassociated herself from him a long time ago, there wasn't anything new there, and therefore nothing to get upset about. He just wished he could make himself believe that. Inside all he felt was hurt. Then again all he had felt was hurt for quite a while now. It wasn't a new thing.

He reached the living room where the officer was sitting drinking a cup of tea offered by his mother. "I'm ready to go now." John said, not knowing what to make of this gentle figure orchestrating his removal from his life and home. He had expected some gruff thuggish man ready to manhandle him into the car and away from here, but instead his man seemed content to let John take his time and say goodbye to his surroundings. Did this officer know what John had done? Was he being nice because he was unaware?

John guessed that it didn't matter really.

He gave his mother a brief hug, the sort that was reserved for friends of friends and regular acquaintances, but not for between family members. There was no warmth there, and there was certainly no more than the barest of emotions expressed. It was the sort of contact that people endured to be polite, not the sort of contact that suggested any real care or affection was shared, and it took him a moment to realise that he was staring at his mother in a sort of state of shock.

John knew that his mother didn't care that much for him; she had always seen him as a disappointment, but when he was leaving, to return goodness knew when, it was more of a blow than he had initially anticipated having her be so uncaring and unfazed by it. _He_ certainly wasn't unmoved by the situation. John was bloody terrified. He was terrified of being wrenched from his life, no matter how strange. He was terrified of the people that he would be staying with. He was terrified at the idea of being in an _institution_ and what that meant for his future. Did he even have a future anymore or was this it? Was he now condemned to this sort of life?

"I'll take your case, lad." The officer said, gently picking up John's worldly goods and taking them over to the unmarked car. He was grateful for that he supposed, at least they weren't making a big song and dance over the situation. He would be discreetly carried away in the grey light of morning to be quietly forgotten about and life would carry on as per usual.

The ride was sedate and unhurried. The officer didn't try to engage John in conversation, and instead was content to play soft whispers of music on the radio. The gentle strains of sound and the soft rocking of the car would have sent John to sleep, if he hadn't been scared stiff.

When they finally pulled up, they had arrived at what looked like an old stately home; a giant sprawling estate which had probably had many generations worth of extensions added to fit with the fashion of the time before moving into the NHS's hands. John would have been lying to say that he wasn't shocked and surprised. This place was gorgeous, and nothing like the concrete sixties monstrosity that he had conjured up in his mind.

The officer pulled his bag across the gravel of the drive and rang the doorbell, silently inviting John to follow him, rather than parading him to the door. If John had been a different person, perhaps a braver person, he knew that he could probably run away from everyone and everything in that moment, but John had never been particularly brave, at least not when it came to figures of authority.

The man who opened the door reminded John of a well shaved Father Christmas. Though he didn't know where the comparison came from, as the only physical similarities seemed to be the slightly rotund figure. John thought it was the man's demeanour that had forced the connection; he seemed jolly in the way that John couldn't help but imagine was perpetual, as though there was no way that this man could avoid being happy.

The place looked as stately inside as it did out, but it was much more brightly coloured. It seemed almost humorous to him. It was the perfect reflection of so many people; the vision of polite society with the acceptable stoic exterior, but inside was a riot of messy colour that you could peer at from the outside if you looked carefully enough. He clearly hadn't had enough sleep if a building was making him get philosophical.

"You must be John," the man said in a booming and slightly accented voice, grasping John's hand firmly, "My name's Stamford, Doctor Mike Stamford, I'm the resident psychologist here. We've got lots of day and night staff, but I'm here twenty-four-seven if you need me. We'll sort out the formalities, I'll show you to your room and then later I'll start the grand tour."

It was embarrassing being led to the side office where he and his luggage were carefully searched for dangerous items. Belts were, cliché as it seemed, actually banned items. His shoes however, being lace-less, were okay. The officer was quick to assure John that this was standard procedure and that he had nothing to worry about, but John couldn't help but wonder what happened to people who were terrified about being touched. Could they cope with the perfunctory pat down that John had endured, or would they be given separate treatment? There were so many questions he had about this place, but his mouth seemed to have lost the ability to ask them.

"I can take it from here constable." Dr Stamford shook the constable's hand as well before taking the now resorted and packed case.

"Thank you, constable." John said, timidly, though he wasn't really sure that saying thank you was appropriate here.

The constable touched the brim of his cap in a way that was antiquated, and yet didn't look even slightly out of place. "Good luck, John"

"Right," said Mike, who had just locked the office door. Clapping his hands he then picked up the suitcase from where he had briefly placed it on the floor. "Follow me, and I'll take you to your room."

John trailed behind through this grand old building. Large windows shed light across the hallways and stairs and he felt, though still scared, slightly calmer than he had been when he had been packing earlier. The rooms and the corridors were so distinctive he also was fairly sure that he wouldn't get lost any time soon, that in itself was a great bonus, he didn't know how people were split up and, for want of a better word, organised here, but if he could tell the difference between the corridors already, then he stood a good chance of being able to avoid the places where he wasn't allowed to be.

"This part of the building is for long term male residents. The girls stay in the opposite wing, the short term patients stay more towards the centre, and the communal and day patients areas are all in the middle near the entrance hall. We care for about a hundred and fifty residents at any one time, and about thirty are long term, like yourself."

John didn't have to be told that, he had heard his options enough times in court and then the details were shared with him afterwards by his interim social worker. Though Dr Stamford would probably want to tell him everything again to make sure that John understood, he already knew what lay ahead of him: John would be in the institute for a minimum of a year and he would remain longer if the social worker related to his case thought that he needed it.

"Your room is here. You've got the space to yourself, so you can personalise it anyway you like. We encourage individualisation here. If you want paints or pictures you can put them up, I hope you'll understand that we do reserve the right to say if we don't think your choice fits in with the ethos of this establishment."

Nodding his reply John couldn't help but be acutely aware of the fact that Dr Stamford was talking to him like an adult. Like a _sane_ adult, and John wasn't sure whether to be happy about it or worried. He was now living in a mental institution, it didn't seem right that he would be treated like a normal person here when he had spent _years_ at home being treated like a witless infant, even before the incident that had brought him here.

"I'll let you get settled," Dr Stamford offered, "I'll come and find you again at around five o'clock so we've got time to chat before dinner, but feel free to wander around the house and communal areas. The walled garden at the back has some communal vegetable patches, which you're welcome to look at, though the rest of the grounds are only available under supervision." With that brief invitation he walked out and gently closed the door behind him.

The room _was_ white, but in that kind of neutral way that was actually very comfortable, the furniture, though plain and utilitarian, was wooden and homely unlike the kinds that were normally used in hospitals. He suspected that the rooms were allotted on a case by case basis, as he had been given what was probably quite a desirable space on the ground floor which meant he didn't have to climb stairs. It wasn't that he couldn't climb stairs, but it took a lot more effort than it used to, and he was always slow with his prosthetic heavy against what was left of his knee joint, especially if he had to bend too much.

He sat on the bed and lay down trying to imagine life here for the next twelve months. He tried to think of what creative ways he could make this room his own, but the only thought that crossed his mind was green forests and winding rivers. Such suggestions would probably be vetoed as being detrimental to his recovery. Instead he tried to blank it from his mind. He thought that perhaps he could go for a wander around the house, to try and make himself feel like he was at home, but he knew that forgetting everything wasn't that easy.

Instead he lay very still and quiet, and breathed in the still, hoping that it would, in turn, still his mind.

o0o0o

This is a work in progress, and though the whole story is mapped out, everything is subject to change.

Also I'm a bit pants at keeping to a deadline, so I'm going to say I'll probably update every one or two weeks.


	2. Kokytos

In which our hero meets a rat and a mouse.

o0o0o

John hadn't felt this pathetically stupid before the accident. Before the accident, despite the fact his mother would have said that he was prideful, he was for the most part under the impression that he was very bright indeed. He had had aspirations for himself that relied heavily on his above average mental capabilities, but now they had been shot down; laid to waste.

The idea that he was sitting here looking at the pen sitting in his hand and trying to work out how to work it properly was as frustrating as it was misery-making. Even trying to find the correct grip on the pen was a hassle. Holding his arm in front of him for too long, trying to focus on his hand, was hurting his shoulder in a way that his shoulder shouldn't have hurt. Of all the places and all the ways he had been injured, his shoulder hadn't been affected, and yet he seemed to get these twinges of pain and cramp there consistently. It was as though the nerves in his upper body were trying to overcompensate for the fact that part of him was now physically missing.

It seemed strange to miss a leg like he missed a person, like he would miss a friend. In the unlikely event that he ever kept a friend long enough to miss them, he imagined that their hypothetical loss would feel like this. He couldn't breathe sometimes, especially when he got the tingles of sensation from where his leg used to be.

In the night he got echoes of feeling, of wanting to scratch an itch that was no longer there and thought it was the worst feeling he had ever experienced he was terrified of the day when that phantom pain would disappear. When the day came that he didn't dream of it anymore he knew that the terrible hope he felt in the middle of the night– the hope that questioned how his accident could have been anything but a dream when could still feel his leg - would be gone forever.

There were some people at the hospital who told him that these feelings were okay and normal, especially just after the surgery. They had told him that this was all just a part of his recovery and that he might feel this way for a while. They told him that he had gone through so much and it was fine if he needed time to feel like hell. It was alright to want to stay in bed forever and think that there was no way that he would ever live a normal life again.

When he had woken from his coma to the gentle voice of the surgeon saying 'accident' and 'inoperable' and 'I'm so very sorry', even his virtually catatonic state hadn't overly worried the hospital psychiatrist. The soft spoken doctor with her Scottish brogue had talked John's mental issues through with him and explained what had happened to him and the feelings that would continue to arrive at his doorstep for months, perhaps even years to come.

Then, the hospital staff had said, when he was ready he would be in a good position to return to normal, return to a normal life of normal thoughts, ideas and ambitions. Despite the fact that there had been damage to more than his leg - he had suffered contusions to his whole body, he had been technically dead for two minutes and the lack of oxygen to his brain had meant that he was lucky to have possession of his faculties at all - they were very optimistic.

"You'll only have to relearn a few academic and fine motor skills." They told him.

This was nothing compared to some people's rehabilitation needs apparently. Although right now his movements were clunky and awkward, and he still had to transfer himself back and forth to his wheelchair several times a day, they reassured him that mobility would return to him once he got his strength back in what was left of his leg.

But those people weren't here anymore. And now such support and understanding for the emotions he was feeling had gone. There was no way that his mother or father would talk to him about anything at all, let alone clinical depression, which she was pretty much certain was as much as a flimsy passing phase as his other 'illness'.

Now the only means of support his parents would allow him was the church he hated, the church he had internally rejected years ago. He couldn't resolve the idea of a loving caring god who would create him this way and then cause his own family to reject him so completely. He couldn't imagine a god who would have let something like this happen to him in the first place. He couldn't imagine a god who was so silent that he let mere mortals pretend that they knew his will and could speak his words, letting them be twisted to their own agenda.

He just couldn't imagine a god, full stop.

But here he was sitting with this young priest anyway, the one who was going to 'help' him through his problems; who was going to use the power of god to heal him of his ills. He would have liked to see the power of prayer bringing back hacked off limbs, but he pretty certain that it didn't work that way. He was also pretty sure that if he brought it up he would be swiftly put in his place. People were itching to tell him that god could heal him on a spiritual level, that god would suddenly make him okay with the fact that his life would never be the same again as long as John let god into his life.

John wished that people would keep their imaginary friends to themselves.

'Especially this guy.' Though John internally. This man, for some unknown reason, just seemed to encapsulate everything John hated about religion and the church in one single, vain, coiffed package. A part of him thought that he should be grateful that he was being offered any support and advice at all, but what rationality was left in him reminded John that Father Sebastian was only helping him as a favour to his mother. It wasn't exactly difficult to miss how much Father Sebastian hated John, or the way that he would talk about him when he thought John wasn't listening.

"Well it was a message from God really." the priest would say, "Things come to us because of the things we do."

And John knew exactly why the priest said stuff like that as well. As though love was something that was evil, because that was all that John had ever done 'wrong'; love.

Father Sebastian seemed to take great pleasure in making John write out passages from the bible to 'practice his writing skills'. These were things that would help him in the long run with his fine motor skills he was assured, however John wasn't so sure. He was fairly certain that the priest just enjoyed watching him stumble over the archaic language that his damaged brain cells couldn't quite wrap themselves around.

Whenever John struggled to read them, the priest delighted in reading out the phrases in a malicious pompous tone. It just confirmed to John that the priest had picked them out to taunt him for his 'faults'. Today Adam was having his bones ripped out of his chest by a God who worried about his creation being lonely. John almost found it funny that God would find it easier to create a whole new being than spend his time with the thing he brought into his world. Then he thought about his mother and the church and started to feel even more depressed than he had previously.

There was something in the way Father Sebastian curled his lips around the verses about god creating women to be companions for men that made John boil up with rage. Not only did John know exactly what the priest was trying to pry out of him with these verses, but he was also fairly sure that a more sexist sentiment was difficult to find anywhere. And what was more, he knew so many women who suffered because of it.

He had made up his mind; he, wouldn't, couldn't put up with this man's attitude towards him. He was certain, and just about self-aware enough to realise, that if he spent much longer in this man's company then not only would he be unable to progress, but he would probably be forced backward just to protect what was left of his mind from this man's onslaught of bigotry. There was too much he had already lost to risk losing anymore.

He scrawled out bitter verses with a shaking hand, learning neither how to read again, nor how to write, nor how to put back together the pieces of his fragile mind. Instead he had to spend his limited energies trying to pull up barriers to the pain, like a man without a home futilely raised up walls of cardboard against the north wind. He was only saved by the reappearance of the mother who had all but isolated him from help and support. Instead she had thrown him into another confessional, another service, another one of her obsessions with prayer and penitence.

"Mother," John began questioning in the quiet of the car, "Can I speak to you about Father Sebastian?"

"Isn't he simply wonderful," his mother said, sweeping away any chance that John had to speak his own mind, "He's exactly what this church needs; some fresh blood to keep our community alive in God."

"But he…" John began, but he felt stupid for even trying, she just rambled on about this new man, not even noticing that John had stopped listening.

"You listen, John." She said, "You're going to learn so much from him. He would write you a fantastic reference to a theology college if you get to know him. I heard him talking about a young girl he had tutored that he had managed to get into Oxford. Can you imagine; going to Oxford to study theology? It would be so wonderful for you! Really help you go back to normal."

But John had switched off at this point, no matter what his mother's fanciful ideas of the future, John knew that he would never get into theology college, he had no vocation for such things, and despite the fact that lack of vocation didn't seem to stop some priests, he knew that he had other dreams and ambitions that were preferable to devoting his life to a god he didn't believe in. Learning how to cope on his new foot for half an hour without needing his wheelchair would be the first thing he wanted to prioritise personally.

She wasn't even listening to him anymore though, she was in her own little world. She was probably just thinking of another priest, one that John had heard a little about in the church, but whose existence was very hush, hush at home. The man had been one of those flying priests, just hopping by for a three month stay in the local area before moving on to the next missionary post, a handsome, charismatic, dramatic character by all accounts whose presence swept people into a frenzy by all accounts.

What he had heard was that the priest never stayed long in one place because he had never been very good at keeping his vows of celibacy. Amongst those affected he suspected was his mother.

John understood more about it when his mother invited Father Sebastian to dinner that next weekend. It was his own father that revealed the truth to him, though indirectly. He changed from his usually calm easy-going nature into something else, something hurt and wounded in a way that had never healed properly.

"I don't see why you're asking," John's father replied, his voice was calm but laced with venom, "it's not as though you care what I think."

"Well I've already asked him now." His mother demurred defensively, "It'll seem terribly rude if we retract the invitation."

"It wouldn't be the first time you've done something without checking if it's alright. At least this time you've brought not brought some bastard into this house." his father snapped suddenly, and his mother looked as though she had been slapped across the face. Her face as pale as ash and hands shaking.

Suddenly it made so much sense in a way that it never had before.

Although, to another ear, it might seem that his father was saying that she had had an affair in the marital bed, he knew, he was acutely aware, that his father meant John. Well not his father he supposed. It was now so clear; why his mother had always seemed ashamed of him, even before all this, why there was always such obsession about the fury of God and about the punishments the lord brought upon the unjust. She had had an affair that resulted in John, and unable to speak of her own misdeeds openly, had taken to seeing John as some cruel and unusual penance.

That was why she had been almost chipper about John's accident, as though this was the last punishment that God would impart and she could now go back to normal. She was probably only sad that John hadn't been killed outright so that she could be absolved of her transgressions.

That was why the older he grew the less his dad cared; he must have been the spitting image of this priest. The more he looked like his father the more he started to alienate his father.

From that point on John fantasised about who his real father was.

He would dream of the day where his dad would arrive, suddenly having been made aware of his existence, and would want to take John away from this place. He would take John around the world with him, sharing his all-encompassing love of helping others in other countries and John could become a doctor to those who needed it most and he would, in turn, finally have the support group of people who cared what he did, not what he couldn't change about himself. He would have the support group he didn't realise that he had needed for longer than he knew.

So he waited, looking towards the horizon all the while.

o0o0o

That man never came. No-one ever came, and John supposed that some part of him was glad about it; he wouldn't have been able to cope with the disappointment of the reality behind his vision of an ideal parent and in the unlikely event that he could have lived up to John's expectations, at least he wasn't here to see what had become of his son.

Waking up in the mental hospital after his brain forced him to re-live some of the many terrible moments that led him here was jarring. It was strange to see the blank walls staring at him as oppose to the mottled olive green walls of his old bedroom at home, it was also interesting to not have the scent of incense burning at his nasal passages or the sound of his mother saying Our Fathers in the living room. The still, the quiet and the calm were as distracting to him as his vision of what he had originally though a mental hospital ought to be like.

John realised what had awoken him, a sharp knock on the door had roused him from his strange recollections and whoever it was had been left waiting by the door for the time it took John to realise where he was. Hurrying as fast as he could with his straps not properly tightened, he got to the door to answer it. He was no overly surprised to see Mike there.

"Hello, John. Are you ready for our meeting?" he asked, ever jolly.

"Yeah," he replied, apologetically, "sorry it took me a while, I was asleep."

"Nothing to apologise for," Mike insisted, "It's good for you to get sleep. The brain needs it for stability. Shall we go?"

Leaning heavily on the door, John nodded, "Can you give me a minute?" he asked. "I haven't got my leg on properly."

"Of course," Mike replied, "Do you need a hand? I know the straps can be tricky on your own the first few times."

"I've been doing on my own for ages," he admitted with a shrug, knowing it told Mike a lot about his family that John hadn't really wanted to get into. "I'm used to it."

To his credit, Mike didn't seem to react at all, he wasn't taken aback and didn't try to give an outpouring of unwelcome sympathy; he simply nodded. "Well if you ever need a hand with it we've got plenty of staff here who are trained to help you with such things."

"Thanks," John mumbled; he didn't really know what else to reply to that.

"I'll just be out here and then we can get started."

John didn't spend to long trying to get the straps in place, he knew he wouldn't be hiking a mountain any time soon, and as long as it was serviceable enough to get him to Mike's office and back then he didn't need to worry about things like blisters. To be honest he just wanted to get this whole thing over and done with.

The walk to Mike's office was silent, which he again allowed himself a moment to appreciate. He had had quite enough of people trying to get him to talk; confessionals and lawyers and priests and judges. They all wanted him to talk in the way that meant that actually they wanted him to parrot off what they wanted to hear and that in an ideal world he would shut up and listen.

Mike's office was ridiculously comfortable. John hadn't really appreciated it before whilst he and his possessions were being searched for dangerous items, but the deep navy blue armchairs and light open windows gave the room the impression of absolute comfort. Sunny and peaceful John expected that given half the chance he could fall asleep again right there.

"We do this as fast or as slow as you want to," Mike established, "I may ask you questions, but you never have to answer them. You'll have regular meetings with me, but what you do with that time is entirely up to you. Do you understand?"

A part of John thought he'd test this 'not having to answer questions' thing by staying still and silent, but the thing was; he quite liked Mike and his easy-going personality. John didn't want to make him think that he was a bad kid, or difficult, so instead he nodded his understanding.

"I'd like to ask you a few things John and remember; you don't have to say anything you don't want to, but first I wanted to see if you had any questions."

John did, and though he thought that it might be tempting fate, he asked it anyway. "What medication are you going to put me on?"

It was something he had been fretting about, the idea that he would be filled with a cocktail of drugs until one fixed him seemed barbaric, but he couldn't imagine that they would let him exist as he was with the potential for dangerous incidents such as the one that sent him there.

"We'll assess that as we go along," replied Mike reasonably, "I can't say we won't put you on a regime, but it is far more dangerous to put someone on the wrong drug than to not give them any medication. Is there anything else you'd like to ask?"

"No," John said, "No, that's it."

The conversation with Mike was long and involved, discussing the events of his accident, the events of the incident everything that came before and afterwards and John felt drained. True to his word, whenever John clamed up Mike didn't force him to talk or respond, in fact he was very kind about the way he handled John's case; a far cry from the rough interrogation of the police. It was wearing, but he felt that Mike was only asking him questions that would help John, he was only establishing how John felt, and how John reacted to the events of the past few years, and not worry about other people.

"That's all I want to ask you for now." Mike explained, "But if you have any other questions or queries we can stay here as long as you need."

"I'm good thanks."

"Then you're free to go, dinner is going to be fairly soon. I'll show you where you'll have group therapy later, and then take you to the dining room. The rest of the evening is yours."

They wandered through the hall and corridors towards the back of the house where they passed several rooms, "You're with group B" Mike explained, pointing out a green door to the left "You'll meet at two twenty in room one tomorrow. The groups are assigned on the grounds of non-conflicting needs, you won't necessarily be able to understand some people's problems, but through mutual sharing and understanding, you should be able to understand your own."

That thought was terrifying. The idea of having to listen to other people struggle with severe needs and problems when he could hardly cope with what had happened to him made him nervous. "It's a requirement to attend some sort of group therapy, because support networks are so crucial." Mike explained, "If the group no longer is beneficial to your mental state then there is an option of moving, but we prefer if you don't, at least to start off with."

John nodded along vaguely, knowing that he'd probably forget everything that Mike was telling him. It wasn't long before the hallway opened up in to a large dining room. There were sounds of life from there although they were slightly muted, confused.

"You can take whatever you like from here." Mike continued to explain, "There's a different hall for those with specific eating needs so you won't be able to socialise with some people here, but there are other common areas. Breakfast hours are six 'til half nine, Lunch from eleven 'til two and dinner from five 'til half seven to allow for people with different therapy groups to have time to eat. You're free to choose when you eat within those times as long as you're free, and if you really need to, there's a kitchen space that residents can use outside of dining hours to practice the skills you'll need once you leave the institute."

Really John wanted some kind of recording device to get all this down. He felt like Mike just liked to give out information but that he wasn't necessarily expecting John to remember it all. Perhaps he was hoping that five per cent would stick if he talked rapidly enough.

"Don't worry," Mike said eventually, seeming to understand John's concerns instinctively. "This will all be in your personalised handbook. I just know that people never bother to read handbooks."

Mike left John at the door, "It was great talking to you John. I'll speak with you again soon."

John quickly followed some of the other entering patients who were taking trays and giving their orders to the kitchen staff. It looked like any other canteen except that some of the people were accompanied by doctors and nurses who ordered for them. He watched as one girl silently pointed at different things and seemed to go through a series of non-verbal communications before she shuffled off to sit at an empty table.

Following her example John picked out a handful of foods from the array, all fairly bland items, but serviceable. There was plenty of oily fish and fresh vegetables, the sort of fare that was supposed to help repair brain function, and then a couple of plain, but fairly greedy, puddings to choose from. He took whatever was recommended and then made his way over to the table where he had seen the young woman go.

"Sorry," he said standing a few feet away from the table, "do you mind if I sit here?"

John had thought he had asked very quietly, but the girl suddenly closed in on herself. She closed her eyes tightly, taking gulping breaths. John was about to walk away, obviously she had chosen this empty table for a reason, before she clenched her hands and nodded furiously.

He hesitated with his hand on the chair, before pulling it out and sitting down. "Thanks," he offered.

She gave a little squeak, almost mouse-like, as if to say don't mention it. She didn't look at him though; she focused on the food in front of her, cutting it furiously into little pieces.

"Food good?" He asked, wondering if this was the sort of place he'd ever be able to make idle conversation.

She squeaked again in return, an almost positive lilt to it, though the sounds were hard to interpret, but looked up at him as though shocked that he would try to talk to her.

"What's your name?" he asked her, curious about this little squeaking girl, "I'm new here you see and I was wanting to get to know some people, but…"

He paused as suddenly she rummaged through a bag of things, pulling out a pad of paper and a pen. She put up her hand with another peep of sound, please wait it said to him.

"I'm Molly." She had scrawled on the page.

"John" he said, holding a hand out for her to shake, and then, as she recoiled from the gesture, he fell still. That sort of reaction did not bode well. He had heard of types of incidents that made people afraid of touch, and he didn't want to imagine anything of the sort happening to this sweet, although slightly strange, girl. But he had to remind himself that he was in an institute for people with severe mental disorders. No matter how nice people were, there was going to be a lot wrong with them.

"I'm so sorry." He said softly, resisting the urge to lean forward and comfort her "I didn't mean to scare you."

She cowered in on herself, taking a few gulping breaths that were remarkably silent, before wiping tears from her face and bringing a shaking hand to the page once more.

"I'm the one who's sorry," it read, "I'm trying not to be so scared of people, but at least I know I shouldn't be scared of you. That's a big improvement for me."

"You've got nothing to be sorry for," he insisted. "We've all got a lot to work through." He consciously, slowly put his hands flat on the table where she could see them, see that he was unarmed and see that he wasn't about to try and make a grab for her.

He felt like a fraud for not explaining his own problems; his periods of blackout and terror, the times when he curled in on himself and had to be forced to get out of bed, the incidents that had brought him to this institute in the first place, but he didn't want to give her any more reason to be scared of him.

Tilting her head to the side she looked up at him through those big, beautiful, haunted eyes. She opened her mouth a couple of times, licking her lips as though trying to warm them up. "He-" she uttered, though it sounded more like a breath than a syllable. Though whatever it was she was meant to convey it certainly made her happy, because she broke into the world's largest grin. She scribbled furiously on a new page.

"Hello," she finished in writing "That's awesome! I haven't tried to speak to a complete stranger in years."

Clearly shot through with some kind of adrenaline induced fearlessness she reached a hand to hover over his and John understood that he was to make no move whatsoever. She looked at his hand as though it were a particularly tricky rat trap, and made shifting movements back and forward as though judging the risks of trying to get the prize out of it.

Eventually she tapped an index finger on the back of his right hand and recoiled so quickly it was as though she had been shocked. She clutched her hand to her as though it pain, but was still smiling. Eventually she once again reached to write on the page.

"Sometimes my bravery is limited."

"No," John insisted, "You're really brave. I honestly think you're the bravest person I've ever met."

She smiled, soft and sweet, it was a smile quite far removed from the slightly manic grin of earlier. "You know what, John" he could see her scrawl, "I think I like you. I really hope you're going to like it here."

He didn't reply but to return a smile of his own, but some part of him felt a strange sense of overwhelming agreement. He really hoped he liked it here too.


End file.
